But my wife, whose devotion to the severe goddess of literature is somewhat vicarious, cannot altogether stifle some pangs of envy as she regards the fine new silk dress of the janitor’s wife, or learns that Mr. So and So, who is in the advertising business, has just given his wife a new span of trotting horses for her new racing cutter. This is enough to make a woman hiss invidious things about the calling of literature. A woman may love literature for her husband’s sake, or even for its own, and yet she cannot help looking into the haberdashers’ and milliners’ windows with wistful hungry eyes. And the goddess of literature does not allow her votaries, especially the married ones, anything but the shabbiest of shoddy drabs. So my wife declares that one million out of seventy is a moderate and conservative estimate, and she will not abate the figures one jot or tittle. I am convinced that the feminine love of finery and comfort and elegance constitutes a temperamental inadaptability to high aims in literature. It all came about in this way: We were out marketing--my better half and I--and we got mixed up with the crowd of swell people pouring into the main entrance of the opera-house, and, as we passed under the brilliantly lighted portico, my wife stopped a moment and peered in to catch the name of MELBA on the billboard. “We never go to see anything nowadays,” she said, a little regretfully, as we moved on. Then we crossed the street and joined the shopping crowd, pushing and elbowing in opposing streams on the other pavement, and presenting an entirely different appearance to the radiant throng about the opera-house. “Oh, well,” I answered, “you can’t expect literature to prosper in a year of financial panics, depreciated dollars and war scares. We must be content to just grub along.” “But I should like to hear Melba and Calve--and I’ve not been to a single Symphony this winter. Then, too, we’ve only seen one play, and that was stupid. And we couldn’t even afford to go up in the gods to see Irving or Beerbohm Tree. It’s a shame the way the speculators run the prices up for everything good!” “Well, you saw Otis Skinner in ‘Villon the Vagabond,’ and that was a good bit of romantic acting.” “Oh, I know, but I do wish we didn’t always have to go up in the gods.” “Get more performances for your money.” “If I could turn dramatic critic now--and, ’pon my soul, I don’t see why not! The trick’s comparatively easy. _My father_ remembers the great Edmund Kean, and I remember what he says of him; and then there is theatrical literature in abundance.” “Oh, no; there’s no fun in seeing a play if you’ve got to go home and write about it. You know that. But there is no reason why we shouldn’t go to the opera and sit in the best seats, if you only put all your energy and lots of good things into what you call your organ of civilization. Of course it should succeed--and once the book lovers and reading public know what it really is, it _must_ succeed.”